


these chains of guilt will bury us

by tragicallynerdy



Category: UnDeadwood (Web Series)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Introspection, M/M, Religion, Religious Guilt, Religious Imagery & Symbolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-29
Updated: 2020-09-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:00:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26706376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tragicallynerdy/pseuds/tragicallynerdy
Summary: Matthew carries the cross that he made, heavy across his back. But his shoulders are broad; he was built for this.
Relationships: Matthew Mason/Clayton Sharpe
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	these chains of guilt will bury us

**Author's Note:**

> Hey folks! I don't even know how to describe this. It's the product of me havin' feels about Matthew's faith and tossing out loosely coherent ramblings onto the Undeadwood discord, and then lumping them all together. It's 99% religious guilt, so fair warning.
> 
> Enjoy?

Matthew feels his faith like a tether, one that helps to carry the millstone of guilt hung around his neck. One that is not freeing, not entirely, but that lightens the load enough that he can press on, keep striving, keep praying for God's grace to wash him clean.

(and he knows what the bible says, knows what the men of his church says, knows that christ's blood washes him clean of all his past transgressions. but he doesn't feel it, doesn't think that it omits the wrong he's done, doesn't think that it grants him absolution -)

For however clean his soul might be, he'll still spend his days trying to make amends. So he hammers and saws and works on the church till his hands are bloody, till it's whole, till there's a worthy place of worship for him and his slowly growing flock. And he fights, puts his own soul on the line for these people and this town and whatever shred of goodness they carry.

(- and if he can't clean the blood from his hands then maybe he should add to it so that others do not have to dirty theirs -)

He hopes he's bringing light to the town. And if he can't bring light, then at least he can beat back the darkness.

(- for his hands are already washed, not with the blood of the lamb but with the blood of the men he's killed -)

He prays, and prays, and prays for this dirty little town and it's hopeless people.

(- but darkness is so much easier to find, these days.)

* * *

Salvation is something he strives for, something he wishes were attainable for someone like him; but for all the years, all the prayers, all the sermons, he still feels he is unworthy, still trips at the idea that Christ's mercy is meant for him.

(paul writes about salvation, about grace, and matthew traces the words with a trembling finger, then shuts the book and sets it down. there are days when it is easier to believe because others need him to, then to believe for his own damned soul. he knows what he's done; he knows what his soul is worth.)

He preaches, and says that Christ is their saviour (since he keeps tripping over ours, and no one seems to notice, not really), and says that redemption is possible. He hopes, and he prays, and he holds his Bible like a weapon and a shield, like it is something that can save him, like it is something that will make him whole.

(whole in the way that nothing seems to have made him, not since he bloodied his hands for the first time, not since he picked up the chains of guilt and slung them across his back – )

It never quite works.

* * *

Sometimes Matthew thinks of his name, and wonders if he is worthy of carrying something so precious. “Gift of God,” he heard a priest murmur as he anointed a child, touching the infant’s forehead with water, “you are His.” The name feels like something beautiful, like it carries some meaning that is not meant for him and the smears on his soul.

(the name he chose, the one that he knew made him seem closer to the church and to god – what better name to take than that of one of his chosen, one of the four who wrote his gospels? matthew is not sure he deserves such closeness, but when he chose it he was grasping for legitimacy with greedy fingers, clawing for a space in the church, however false -)

For he was _not_ a gift. He was not anything. He was an empty vessel, cracked and broken, filled with dirt and ash; he was a man without a name, or with too many, or not enough; he was someone without purpose, without a reason to call his.

(and his faith was as fake as his name, for a time; now it is real, as rich as the wine he pours for communion, and it gives him _purpose_ -)

He knows his reason, now. Knows what he needs to repent for, what he needs to make _right_.

(the greed that still claws at him with wretched fingers, the rage that clouds his vision, and so much more that he is guilty of - )

So Matthew carries the cross that he made, heavy across his back. But his shoulders are broad; he was built for this.

(he wonders sometimes, what it means about the benevolence of his lord that he must still carry this guilt, that the more he learns about faith and goodness and devotion the worse he feels about all he has been and all he has done, about the constant cycle of sinning and repentance that he feels he is caught in, about the guilt that still eats away at his soul -)

“Gift of God,” he murmurs to himself, “you wretched thing.”

(- and his sins that shall find him out.)

* * *

The church is a burnt, fragile thing, a husk of what it once was. Matthew looks at its charred remains, and wonders about the skeleton of faith that still remains in Deadwood, the burnt and battered bits of God that can be found in this dirty little town. He’s not sure if it’s enough to build on, if it can be salvaged but he has to try.

(if the foundation is solid, then the church will grow strong -)

He wonders, sometimes if that was why he was called here; what better a pastor than one as broken as its church? He knows how to turn exposed ribs and sharp edges into something soft, something useful, if not beautiful. Not every building can be build on solid ground, and he knows how to build on sand. He’s done it before.

(- but how do you know, how can you be sure that you are building on solid ground -)

And he knows, better than most, that not all solid ground stays that way. Knows that sometimes the truths and the foundations you’ve built can crack and peel away like paint, like shale, like something too brittle to hold weight and too fragile to withstand the test of time. And if even the most solid of foundations can fail, then why not try and build wherever there’s space to be found? It is the test of fire, after all, that turns soft sands into sharp, glittering glass. Maybe this fire was needed, maybe this fire tempered the ground, made it hallowed and ready for the dwelling he will build upon it.

(- when you’ve never been on solid ground to begin with?)

So he builds, and he hopes, and he prays. And as he wears his hands down to the bone, as he spills his blood and sweat and tears into this space, he thinks about fires, and glass, and the beauty of fractured light spilling through an open window. And he wonders (he can’t hope, not for himself, not yet) if his own fire, and the fire that burnt this church down to its bones, will turn them both into something beautiful, too.

(And one day, the storms will come.)

He always was a foolish man.

* * *

He knows the church is not just a building. He knows, he knows, he's read the passage, he knows that he is the church, they are the church, (we are the church is hard to grasp, hard to acknowledge that he and they are one and together the same body, the same entity that makes up this thing that is called the church). But even so, he needs the structure, the space, the brittle bones and fragile hull that makes this building feel like home.

(he's never needed it before, a structure to call his. he pretends he doesn't need it now, pretends that it is god's and god's alone, like it is precious, a sacred space, and not the dwelling place of a wretched being like himself. he pretends, but it doesn't work. not very well, at least.)

* * *

He knows what devotion is, knows what love is, knows he is supposed to give both in unending supply to the God that gave him life. But when he looks at Clayton, and feels this _thing_ beating in his chest swell with hope and love and adoration, he wonders where he went wrong, why he feels more for this grizzled man tangled up in his sheets than he does for the Lord he’s devoted his life to.

(and this, he thinks, is one more sign of his own wickedness, his own wretched soul; he can’t even love his god properly)

But he can’t help it, can’t help that when he looks at Clayton he thinks of God, thinks of holiness and blessings and grace, and a love so fierce that it cleanses his soul. And he already knows that he’s a sinner, that his soul is stained and that no grace could wash it clean; so what’s one more sin to add to the pile? Clayton is worth it, worth every ounce of love poured into him and not into the God Matthew should be worshiping instead.

He loves him, and he will _keep_ loving him, so long as there is breath in his body to draw, so long as Clayton will have him (so long as his Lord allows).

(“my lover is mine,” he whispers to himself, “and i am his”)

* * *

He thinks of joy, and he thinks of life, and the desolation that came before. Deadwood is different, Deadwood is new and full of hope (for all that it is a hopeless place, for all that so many dwell here in despair). Matthew doesn’t know when he became so blessed, when the mantle was placed upon him. He has friends, a family, a lover. He has a community, a church, a purpose. It makes him terrified for when it will fail, when this house will crumble like so many have before it.

(trust in the lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding)

And for all his faith, for all his devotion, Matthew knows that trust is hard to come by. It is formed in hardship, in blood and sweat and iron, in the decision to stand fast and maintain. So to find it here, in this place made of dust and gold and thin paper smiles – what a treasure. What a gift.

(and if all of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind, then what better purpose but to love the lord his god)

“Thank you, oh Lord,” he prays, “for the blessings you have given.”

(and for all his guilt, for all his failings, for all his faith that will not move mountains –

matthew is here, with all his broken pieces.)

And God smiles upon him.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are always appreciated <3 
> 
> I can be found on the tumblr [here](https://thetragicallynerdy.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> If any of y'all are curious, here are the Biblical quotes/references: 
> 
> Ecclesiastes 1:14 – All of it is meaningless, a chasing after the wind.  
> Proverbs 3:5 – Trust in the lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding.  
> Song of Songs 2:16 - My beloved is mine and I am his; he browses among the lilies.  
> 2 Corinthians 4:7 - But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.  
> 1 John 1:7 - But if we walk in the light, as he is in the light, we have fellowship with one another, and the blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin.


End file.
